


Sweet Treat

by Fyre



Series: Hunger [12]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Dirty Talk, Domestic Fluff, Frottage, Love, Mouth Play, Trust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-14
Updated: 2019-09-14
Packaged: 2020-10-18 06:48:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20634893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fyre/pseuds/Fyre
Summary: If there’s anything that makes Aziraphale go wide-eyed and flustered, it’s being utterly spoiled and Crowley is damned good at flustering his angel.Not, he quickly realises, that he knows how to really bake anything. There are code words that don’t mean what they appear to mean, instructions that seem arbitrary, and very specific measurements which turn out to actually be pretty important.But he created nebula, for Go– Sa– SOMEONE’s sake! He can manage to follow a few measly human instructions! It will be beautiful! It will be perfect! And he will get it exactly right the first time, specific instructions, be damned!





	Sweet Treat

Crowley isn’t used to being in the cottage on his own.

It’s not that he doesn’t like it, but it’s _their_ place and he always prefers it when they’re both there. It feels right. Home. It’s weird thinking about it like that, but that’s what it is.

Satan’s sake, last time they were up in London, he found a natty doormat for the front step that proclaimed there was no place like it. Aziraphale got a silly soft look on his face and Crowley insisted it was ironic, definitely. Not at all soft and sentimental and… yeah. No. He wasn’t fooling anyone.

Now, for a change, Aziraphale’s the one who has headed out on some kind of mercy mission – or possibly to a bake-off at a town hall – and Crowley’s limited business dealings are done and he’s wandering around the house at a bit of a loose end.

It’s not as if he can even do any gardening, not with the frost still hanging around and spring still a good few weeks away. There’s nothing on the telly. The Bentley is already waxed and polished and tucked up snugly in the old stables. He even tries reading the book Aziraphale left on the coffee table, but there’s only so much modern poetry a sane demon can take.

It’s probably why he ended up in the kitchen, poking through the one room that is normally Aziraphale’s domain. Not that the angel ever really cooks anything. He’s tried. He’s just… very easily distracted when it comes to food preparation and has been known to lick some batter from a spoon, then somehow find the batter bowl mysteriously empty ten minutes later.

There are dozens of recipe books arranged artfully on a shelf and he lifts one down, leafing through it, then grins. If there’s anything that makes Aziraphale go wide-eyed and flustered, it’s being utterly spoiled and Crowley is damned good at flustering his angel.

Not, he quickly realises, that he knows how to really bake anything. There are code words that don’t mean what they appear to mean, instructions that seem arbitrary, and very specific measurements which turn out to actually be pretty important. 

But he created nebula, for Go– Sa– SOMEONE’s sake! He can manage to follow a few measly human instructions! It will be beautiful! It will be perfect! And he will get it exactly right the first time, specific instructions, be damned!

Or almost right.

Nearly.

The third attempt at batter – this one with no damned egg shells and the correct amount of butter this time – pours smoothly into the cake tin. It _ripples_ like sweet-scented liquid silk and suddenly, Crowley can see why Aziraphale usually ends up with a sticky-sweet moustache, an empty bowl and a guilty look on his face.

“You’d better work,” he warns it sternly, as he slides it into the pre-heated – and if you don’t stay exactly the right temperature, so help me… – oven. “Otherwise the compost bin’ll be the least of your worries.”

It does, of course.

Perfect and round and golden and thick enough to slice into two identical(ish) circles once it’s cool enough and doesn’t collapse. Not that he hastily has to miracle the overly hot crumbling version back into a whole cake at _all_. Nope. That’s a rookie mistake for the idiot who didn’t read the instruction about leaving it to cool first. Definitely didn’t do that.

Technically, he’s meant to pipe the cream on, but he’s _made_ the damned cake! By himself! With a… whatsit… whisk! No one could blame him for miracling the filling, a layer of Aziraphale’s favourite strawberry jam and a frothy layer of cream. The last bit is throwing icing sugar on the top through the sieve thingie. Cake looks like it’s been in a damned blizzard by the time he’s done. So does half the kitchen, the rest of it looking like a baking bomb has gone off.

He grins and licks a finger, then draws a smiley face on the counter.

This is what you get, angel, he thinks cheerfully, as he saunters back through to the living room. Shouldn’t leave me unsupervised.

Satisfied with his very demonic misdeed, he sprawls on the couch in a warm patch of sunlight, the winter’s chill safely held at bay by the double-glazing he had absolutely insisted on getting. It’s bloody perishing outside, with the wind and the frost and everything else, but inside, he’s toasty and wriggles to make himself even more comfortable, cramming both hands under his head.

S’not his fault if it’s comfy enough he falls asleep.

S’also not his fault that he’s wriggled and squirmed himself into a knot and is still there, wrapped around a cushion, dozing comfortably, when the angel finally comes home and he misses seeing the look on the blessed creature’s face.

First he knows of it are fingers brushing his cheeks, stroking his unravelled hair back from his face.

“Wsfgl?”

“Afternoon, my love,” Aziraphale’s voice is soft and warm and the thrum of emotion cuts through all sleepiness.

Crowley cracks one eye open, a small smile sneaking onto his face at the radiant glow emanating from the angel. Aziraphale shines at the best of times, but when he’s happy? He could light up the night sky. “Mm.” He runs his cheek into the angel’s palm. “’Lo.”

Aziraphale leans down over him, pressing a chain of feather-light kisses along his cheekbone, closer and closer until Crowley turns his head and claims his lips. He tastes icing sugar and jam and laughs, drawing back from the kiss.

“You found it, then.”

The angel gives him that adorable look, the duck of the head, the carefully suppressed smile of utter delight, his eyes shining. “You shouldn’t have, darling.”

“What? Made a mess of the kitchen?” Crowley rolls onto his back, arching and stretching. “Couldn’t help myself.”

Aziraphale’s hand ghosts down his side. “You _know_ what.” He leans down to kiss him again. “It’s _lovely_.”

Despite himself, Crowley arches an eyebrow. “What have we said about that word, angel?”

At once, Aziraphale’s hands frame his face and he finds himself kissed to within an inch of discorporation, fingers scrabbling at the angel’s back. His breath is little more than tiny gasps when Aziraphale lifts his head, his eyes dark with adoration.

“You,” the angel breathes so heatedly that Crowley’s bare toes curl into the cushions, “are a temptation of the highest order.”

“Just a cake,” Crowley croaks.

“Just a cake,” Aziraphale echoes, disbelief in every syllable. “_Just_ a cake. Oh, my darling…” He catches one of Crowley’s hands, lifting it to his lips, his palm a searingly wonderful brand against Crowley’s palm. “I love you dreadfully.”

Crowley swallows hard in a throat dry as bone. “S’what I am. Dreadful.”

Aziraphale’s eyes gleam and oh, shit, he knows that look. “You have your moments,” the angel agrees, then – oh you bloody bastard! – kisses the very tip of Crowley’s forefinger. Aziraphale’s lips curl. “Messy, sugary ones it seems…”

And before Crowley can work out what the hell he’s on about, he wraps his mouth around Crowley’s finger and _sucks_. His tongue– there’s teeth and– 

“Gnee!” Crowley swears. “Sfgk!”

“I’m not the one who got icing sugar all over my hands, dear,” Aziraphale murmurs primly, when he draws his head back. He licks one corner of his lips, then the other. “Honestly, what a mess you’ve made of yourself.”

“Didn’t!”

“Oh, really?” Aziraphale lofts his eyebrows, then just as suddenly, Crowley’s index finger is wrapped in a hot wet mouth and that… that… that god-damned tongue. Crowley’s heels jab at the couch, his other hand clutching at the pillow beneath him.

“Gnah!”

Aziraphale meets his eyes, then catches both fore- and index-fingers and Crowley can’t stop staring – or squirming – as Aziraphale’s tongue ravages them, enjoying them as much as he’s enjoy _anything_ Crowley has offered him. Christ, he looks good with his mouth open and filled like that.

“Damn it,” he chokes out. “’Ziraphale!”

Aziraphale gives him that god-damned innocent wide-eyed look as he lifts his mouth away. “Did you say something, darling?”

Crowley hisses half-heartedly at him.

Aziraphale’s lips twitch. “Oh, come now,” he purrs, leaning closer. “Don’t be grumpy.”

“Not grumpy,” Crowley growls out, shifting on the couch.

“Oh, I _see_,” the angel says, all innocence and virtue and yet, smirking like a damned succubus. He runs his thumb in a circle in the middle of Crowley’s palm, then slowly up to caress those slick, wet fingers. “Does that mean you don’t want me to… attend to your other fingers? I’m sure they’ll be–”

Crowley’s other hand sinks into his hair and he shuts the angel up with an urgent, hungry kiss. Aziraphale laughs into his mouth, wrapping his arm around Crowley’s waist and bodily hauling him up into his lap.

Crowley pushes him back against the couch, catching the angel’s face between his hands, stealing away his breath and smothering his lips in kisses, before trailing nips and licks and fluttering kisses across Aziraphale’s radiant upturned face.

“You spoil me,” Aziraphale says, happily breathless.

“Mm.” Crowley kisses him again, then sits back on his lap, gazing down at him. He darts his own tongue out to wet his lips, then lifts his fingertips to brush along Aziraphale’s lower lip. “I _did_ make a bit of a mess, didn’t I?”

“Oh, you _did_,” Aziraphale breathes, catching his hand. “I ought to help you clean up.”

Crowley bares his teeth. “Go on then, angel,” he growls out, sliding closer, his knees framing the angel’s hips. “Get me good and clean.”

Aziraphale’s eyes darken greedily and he needs no further invitation. He squeezes Crowley’s hand, kisses each knuckle, then the pink tip of his tongue darts out, stroking between Crowley’s fingers, forcing them wider apart, lapping suggestively at each of them, before taking each finger in turn and lavishing his every affection on it.

Crowley forgets all about breathing, sinking lower against him. Aziraphale’s _enjoying _it. Enough that he’s made an effort. Crowley can feel him pressing up against him through their trousers. With every suck of those plump pink lips, he grinds himself against the angel and sees the fire kindling in Aziraphale’s eyes.

When Aziraphale captures Crowley’s thumb, he sucks greedily and hard and Crowley keens, rocking harder against him. The hot, muffled moan vibrates against his palm and he draws a sharp breath, fisting his free hand in Aziraphale’s curls.

“Damn it, Aziraphale,” he groans, trying to wriggle closer. Clothes. Clothes are in the way. Should be skin on skin. A shaking snap of his fingers and he’s halfway bare, shirt hanging loose over him. It’s better and worse, the crushed fabric of Aziraphale’s trousers rough against his bare skin, but none of the hot, hard heat of Aziraphale’s body.

“Off?” Aziraphale asks thickly against his palm.

Crowley lifts his head to stare at him. Aziraphale, fully-dressed, prim and proper, buttoned up to the nines. Looking as angelic and pure as it’s possible to be, but rutting through his trousers like a randy teenager. “No,” Crowley grins at him. “This… this is perfect.”

Aziraphale glows, wrapping his arm around Crowley’s waist, urging him to resume his rocking motion, his eyes never leaving Crowley’s face as he takes Crowley’s index finger back into his mouth. The stroke of his tongue is slow and thorough and God, Crowley can take a hint, slowing the sinuous roll of his hips to match Aziraphale’s lazy tongue.

“Fuck…” the demon groans, as Aziraphale sucks that little bit harder. Teeth catch, sending fire skittering through him and he curls his fingers, yanking Aziraphale's hair. Aziraphale hisses against his fingers, his head falling back, away. “No,” Crowley growls, rocking harder. “You’re not done yet.”

He catches the angel’s chin in his shimmering, wet hand, drawing his face back up.

“Open wide, angel,” he breathes.

Aziraphale’s eyes are so dark they’re verging on black and he parts pink, swollen lips, groaning around Crowley’s fingers as Crowley thrusts two of them into the angel’s mouth. He rocks his hips to match the stroke of his fingers, breathing harder with every urgent rock of his hips. Aziraphale is moving too, hips shuddering up beneath him, arm tightening, his eyes pressed closed as he teeters closer and closer and–

“You’re a dirty bastard, angel,” Crowley croons hoarsely close to Aziraphale’s ear. “Jesus _Christ_, finger fucking and hard as hell and–” The breath is forced from him as Aziraphale jerks him hard and close, rutting up against him, his breath hot and wet around Crowley’s fingers, small, urgent, animalistic sounds catching in his throat. “Fuck, _yes_, angel!” Crowley gasps out. “Come on. Show me– give– yeah–”

Aziraphale goes rigid in his embrace, a shudder rocking him. His teeth nip sharply and Crowley wrenches his fingers free, pulling the angel closer, hugging him.

“Yeah…” he breathes, rolling his hips over and over, feeling Aziraphale’s erection subsiding. “Good angel. Fucking good angel.”

Aziraphale has his face buried in Crowley’s throat, urgent damp huffs warm on his skin. Then…

“Oh fuck…”

Teeth are grazing, nibbling, biting, then a burning delicious fire through him as the angel _sucks_. Marks. Fresh marks. Again and again and again.

“Shit…” Crowley whines, grinding for another purpose entirely now, squirming, demanding. Fingers push up under his shirt, nails rake down his back, making him arch, shuddering. “S’this revenge?”

“Mm.” Aziraphale hums, pushing the shirt up, up and over and away. Crowley hisses, shaking his hair free, then again when Aziraphale grabs and pulls and – Christ on a cracker – bites hard on the meat where shoulder meets neck.

“Christ!”

The angel lifts his head, eyes dark and hungry. “Your turn, darling,” he growls. His hands splay and Crowley draws a breath, but it bursts out of him as angelic power surges, lighting his nerves on delicious fire. His whole body arches, wings flaring, fingers clawing, hips stuttering.

“FUCK!” he wails, blood-surging, breath gone, world spinning as he sags helpless in the angel’s arms.

He’s still wound up in them when his senses come back, one by reluctant one. Lying down now, he notices, still holding tight, wings all floppy on the floor behind him. Bruises, he thinks. Bruises by nightfall. Nice ones. Soft hand stroking his side, gently now, tender.

“Mm.”

“Mm?” Aziraphale lifts his head, gazing down at him with big soppy eyes.

Crowley grins at him. “Dirty, dirty bugger,” he murmurs. “Got you off in your trousers.”

The angel turns a shade of pink. “To be quite honest,” he murmurs, “you could probably have the same effect regardless of attire.” His nose wrinkled. “Though I should clean myself up.”

Crowley waves a floppy arm and after a couple of attempts manages to snap his fingers.

At once bare legs are framing his on the couch.

“That,” Aziraphale murmurs, “is not what I meant.”

Crowley slithers one leg more snugly between Aziraphale’s. “S’what it sounded like.”

He’s not surprised when Aziraphale settles closer. There’s something… nice about skin to skin in the afterglow, all warm and sated and _good_. Aziraphale nuzzles his face back into Crowley’s throat and sighs contentedly.

“’Ziraphale?” Crowley slurs, inching closer to sleep by the second.

“Hm?”

“Y’forgot the cake.”

The angel squeaks in dismay, lifting his head, and Crowley dissolves into helpless, drowsy giggles.

“It’ll wait,” he says, reaching up and tangling his fingers in Aziraphale’s hair. “S’fine.”

“Are you sure?” The angel glances towards the kitchen. “I wouldn’t want your work to be in vain.”

Crowley smiles. Silly, soft angel. “S’fine,” he repeats, drawing him back down. “t’ll stay fresh for later.”

Aziraphale does that daft shiny angel smiley thing. “Oh, _good_.” He kisses the very tip of Crowley’s nose. “Thank you, my love.”

Crowley goes happily pink and hugs him again. “Ah, shaddup.”

The cake, he thinks as he drifts into a happy doze, was a fan-fucking-tastic idea. Great results. Ten out of ten. Good bloody cake.


End file.
